


Exception to the Rule

by StealingPennies



Category: Primeval
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/pseuds/StealingPennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lester looked across sharply. “Don’t for one minute think I approve of this. Helen Cutter is going to disappear permanently whether the ARC gets involved or not. The one thing I can do is to ensure that whoever does the job does it quickly and professionally.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exception to the Rule

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended as a thank you to Fififolle for all the beta work over the last year. In the event I wrote it and then pretty much begged her to beta it. So I still owe her. Any mistakes left in the text belong to me. Anyone who knows anything about guns and forensics will have to do some wincing and hand-waving. Written for the Trope Bingo square: Fake Relationship

**EXCEPTION TO THE RULE**

Ryan distrusted Suits. In his experience they came in two types – the aloof, arrogant Playing Fields of Eton version, still convinced that Her Majesty knew best and mourning the non-existent glory days of colonialism, and the intelligent rat version, which was the more dangerous, combining as it did a dangerous mixture of cunning and cynicism.

Either variety was as likely to get you killed.

James Lester was definitely a Suit and one, moreover, who belonged in the second category. Although, to be fair, the image he projected just now was more over-heated dormouse than verminous plague carrier. Sweat beaded Lester’s upper lip and his pushed-back hair was damp. He lay on their bed, eyes closed as the air conditioner maxed out, battling to cool the room from the mid-day heat spilling through the open balcony doors.

Yes, their bed. His and Lester’s. 

Ryan moved to the balcony and surveyed his surroundings. This was unexpected luxury. Of course, the job dictated the terrain but he’d stayed in enough dirt-infested tents to fully enjoy five-star pampering on the Cote d’Azur when it came his way. He pulled up a wicker chair and settled back to enjoy the uninterrupted view of the Mediterranean and the wide sweep of the Bay of Angels.

An appropriate enough setting from which to dispatch a woman into the hereafter.

Ryan didn’t know quite what he had expected when Lester had asked if he would be willing to take part in an undercover operation. He wasn’t even sure why he had agreed before knowing the full ins and outs. Perhaps because Lester had asked, rather than just assigned the mission to him, and because it was obviously a mission about which Lester himself had serious doubts. Not that Lester would ever have expressed it that way but when you knew someone, worked with them, you watched their back. You learned their ‘tells’. Lester was uncomfortable.

And when he explained the mission Ryan could see exactly why.

Lester had motioned him to a chair in his office and shut the door before sitting down at his desk. Once there, he pulled out the yellow box file that lodged the Special Forces’ expenses, flicking it open so that anyone glancing through the windows would assume that’s what he was discussing with Ryan, and then proceeded to ignore it.

Ryan took the cue, assumed the slightly bored expression Lester’s economic lectures usually inspired, and waited to hear the real reason for this meeting. The fact that Lester was clearly working up to the telling was worrying in itself.

“The matter we spoke about last week,” began Lester, jabbing a forefinger randomly at the charge sheet for April. “I want you know that you can back out now with no repercussions or reproaches.”

Ryan shifted slightly in his seat and yawned, as if the subject was indeed the scandalous amount of teabags his men seemed to get through. “I agreed then and I agree now. You would be ordering rather than asking if it wasn’t major. Now, are you going to tell me exactly what secret business this is I’ve agreed to take part in or shall I just sit here for a while longer and pretend that I care about this list of expenses?”

Lester looked, if possible, both relieved and more stressed than a moment earlier. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We’re going to assassinate Helen Cutter.”

“Like hell we are!” The denial was instinctive. Ryan raised his gaze from the paperwork to meet Lester’s glance. There was no humour whatsoever in the other man’s face. Whatever Ryan had expected it hadn’t been this.

“Hell,” he said again, softer this time. No wonder Lester was jumpy.

“That seems the most likely destination,” agreed Lester, watching him closely.

Ryan ignored the jibe. He knew what the answer would be but all the same he had to check. “You’re really not joking, are you?”

“Not one little bit.”

After the initial shocked reaction Ryan had demanded more details and Lester had supplied them as far as he was able, briefly, and without the usual sarcasm undercutting his words.

“Helen Cutter has moved on to new romantic pastures. Unfortunately, the pasture she’s grazing on is a Russian known as Anatoly Babanin.” He paused and turned to a new page of figures. Ryan gave a brief nod to indicate he was following. “I see you recognise the name. So you’ll understand that Helen has managed to ruffle more feathers than her ex-husband’s and some of those feathers belong to men in influential positions who don’t like being ruffled. Not one little bit. The upshot is she’s been deemed a political liability and is going to be ‘taken out’ as the polite euphemism goes.”

Ryan had heard vaguely of Babanin. He was one of the select few that had come out of the wreckage of the Soviet Union not just rich but super-rich. Rumour had it the man had made his first million through extortion and arms dealing, but nothing had ever been proven and, although the stories persisted, Babanin was savvy enough to invest later millions in legitimate businesses around the world. Around Ryan’s own age, Babanin had a reputation for being something of a playboy with a liking for flash cars and expensive women. Helen was not standard girlfriend material for such a man but her involvement didn’t exactly surprise Ryan either. The woman was a trouble magnet.

“Why us?” asked Ryan when all this was explained. Ugly as the set up was he didn’t question it for a moment. People disappeared. That didn’t mean he wanted anything to do with it.

Lester looked across sharply. “Don’t for one minute think I approve of this. Helen Cutter is going to disappear permanently whether the ARC gets involved or not. The one thing I can do is to ensure that whoever does the job does it quickly and professionally.”

Ryan grunted, “That’s not an answer. There are plenty of people who can give you quick and professional.”

“And personal,” added Lester. “Whatever I think of Helen Cutter we owe her husband that.”

Ryan did not respond. He’d killed a number of men, some no doubt better people than himself, but never a woman and never in a non-combat situation. The very idea was revolting. His instinct was to walk away, fast and far, and to let Helen take her chances elsewhere even if her chances were zero. This was, as Lester freely admitted, nothing to do with the ARC and they were only involved via circumstance.

Furthermore, he understood enough about the way these things operated to know that Lester must have really stuck his neck out and called in every favour he could think of to get this opportunity. If you could call this ridiculous sentimental gesture for a woman who would never know about it, and for a man who never forgive them, any sort of opportunity. It was a fool’s errand at best and Lester was asking Ryan to be the fool.

“Still with me?” asked Lester. The question was genuine, in both senses.

Ryan knew that whatever Lester had said earlier about not backtracking once he was committed the other man would not hold him to his word if he wanted out. Helen’s fate had been decreed. The only question was who was going to pull the trigger. He didn’t want to do it. But Lester was right in that respect. A death should mean something.

Ryan ran his finger down the line of numbers and stopped at the final entry. It was double underlined. He traced the numbers lightly before dropping his hand back in his lap.

“Still with you,” he said.

The folder shut with a sharp click indicating as clearly as words that their interview was over. Ryan stood up slowly. There was a lot more to say but just now Ryan wanted to get out of this office and get outside and breathe some fresh air. Lester watched him, face unreadable. As Ryan turned to go the other man spoke, a seemingly offhand comment.

“She got away from us once before.”

So that was it.

Ryan didn’t turn around and he didn’t bother to shut the door as he left.

*

Ryan narrowed his eyes against the sun causing the white granite paving to merge into the blue of the sea in an Impressionistic blur. He needed his shades but they were inside and he didn’t want to go back and risk waking Lester up. He wanted to be alone and to think. He wasn’t a particularly imaginative man, or an impulsive one, but he was here largely on impulse and now his imagination was working on unwelcome overtime.

Ryan had always had a somewhat uneasy relationship with Nick Cutter. Something about Cutter’s need to be always right, alongside his equally infuriating habit of nearly always actually being right, did not make for easy companionship. Add to that the fact that Ryan had no real interest in the academic puzzles and theoretical possibilities that so excited the field team and there wasn’t much common ground. He’d left school after A-levels and gone straight into the army. He saw – quite rightly, he believed – creature incursions in terms of threat to civilian lives rather than as displaced innocents to be herded back to the safety of their own time. The two men had a kind of grudging respect but it wasn’t friendship. He’d buy Cutter a pint if they met at the pub but Ryan wouldn’t have been the one to invite Cutter there in the first place.

Now Ryan was going to kill Cutter’s wife. Ex-wife, but the point still stood. He hoped Cutter would never find out but somehow he was going to have to face the guy day-in and day-out knowing what he had done. Fucking Suits.

And here he was pretending to be in a long-term relationship with one.

A red-logoed plane cut across the perfect sky banking in to land at the airport a few kilometres away. At ground level no one looked up or paid any attention to the familiar sight. Planes, both commercial and private, landed and took off approximately every twenty minutes. The noise and the constant sluggish flow of traffic reminded him of London. The sooner they got the job done, the sooner they could go home. The surroundings may be opulent but as far as Ryan was concerned this was still hostile territory. It wouldn’t do to forget that.

Or to get too involved.

He went back to the bedroom. Lester had fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow even breaths. He slept neatly, economically, with limbs tucked in and contained to one side of the king-size bed. Ryan smiled. What else? Even in sleep his companion was giving nothing away. For lack of something better to do he lay down on the mattress beside Lester and shut his eyes. There would be work to do later.

*

Preparation had taken some weeks from the initial conversations with Lester - setting a time and place for Helen’s demise was not as simple as it sounded, but then in Ryan’s experience of covert operations these things never were. Babanin chose his men carefully, and although he was predictable in many things geographical location was not one of them. Like many of the super-rich the Russian spent his time flitting between different cities and resorts according to fashion and whim.

Ryan had done some research on Babanin and found him even shadier than rumours suggested. Alongside the extortion there was also a circumstantial trail of dead bodies where political or business associates had crossed a line or made the ‘wrong’ decision and had later suffered a convenient accident. If it had been Anatoly Babanin that Ryan had been commissioned to assassinate he thought he could do it without too many regrets. The world might be a better place.

The puzzle was what Helen could possibly see in such a man. He was good looking enough, something like a coarser version of Stephen Hart, but entirely uneducated. It must be power, he decided. That and money were the ultimate aphrodisiacs. And then, of course, Helen had never had anything that actually approached a moral compass. This was a woman who’d let her husband think she was dead for eight years. She probably didn’t give a damn what Babanin did in his spare time as long as it didn’t personally inconvenience her.

Of course, that was about to change, thought Ryan with grim humour, death being the ultimate in personal inconvenience.

Meanwhile the days passed as they always did with anomaly alarms to be followed up, creatures to be contained, bystanders to be protected, and reports to be written.

During the enforced waiting period Ryan noticed Lester becoming increasingly jumpy. That worried him slightly although he put it down to Lester preferring to orchestrate rather than wait on events. But still.

Lester had always been tetchy, to put it nicely, but now he could barely utter a word without causing offence to his subordinates who were constantly being reprimanded for some transgression or other. The notable exception was Lester’s assistant, Lorraine, who seemed to have the ability to simply smile and shrug and walk away. But then nothing ever seemed to faze Lorraine. Whatever her secret was she should bottle and sell it, thought Ryan, there would certainly be a market.

Ryan was just glad that his duties as Special Forces manager kept him largely out of Lester’s way. In work, that is, outside work he seemed to be spending most of his free time with the man.

Lester and Ryan did not interact any more than usual.

Tom and James were dating.

*

The assumed relationship scenario had not been mentioned at the time of Lester’s original request. It was thrown in somewhere in the planning stages and Lester simply presented it as a fait accompli, a necessary deception for the job in hand. At the time Ryan was not sure which part had outraged him more: the idea of James Lester as a romantic partner, or the implication that he, Ryan, was not to be trusted and would need watching.

The first aspect had been surprisingly easy to come to terms with. If you could overlook the fact that Lester was, generally-speaking, an officious prick and a devious bastard, he was also funny, perceptive, and surprisingly good company.

Outside work Lester was every bit as pernickety as he was in office hours but either Ryan was becoming immune or he was learning to see through the act.

The second aspect still rankled.

*

So, yeah, Ryan was ‘dating’ Lester. And, as it turned out, Lester took his subterfuge seriously. That meant not just saying they were together for the purposes of the contract, and Ryan was still unclear exactly what these purposes might be besides allowing Lester to keep tabs on him, but actually going out as a couple and spending time together socially ‘laying the groundwork’ before it was required.

Lester insisted, he seemed to be going out of his way to ensure that far from being low key and circumspect he and Ryan drew as much attention as possible to themselves without actually making a public announcement or unfurling a rainbow flag.

Ryan had to admit that, circumstances aside, he was enjoying himself. He’d always been very casual when it came to relationships with a sort of easy come/easy go attitude. When you were liable to get killed at any moment it didn’t seem fair to prospective partners to allow things to become serious. He’d seen too many grief-struck men and women standing silent by freshly-dug graves, faces raw with tears or shuttered in lonely disbelief, to want to add to their number.

There was nothing casual or easy about Lester but that made the small concessions all the sweeter. It was oddly like being a teenager again with each encounter revealing some new secret to be examined and explored and a dizzying sense of never knowing quite what lay ahead.

Like a teenage romance it was also frustrating as hell and his right hand was getting more of a work-out than it had in years.

*

Lester being Lester a ‘date’ could not possibly involve anything as mundane or informal as dropping in to the pub after work. Lester simply did not do spontaneous. He liked to plan and be in control. So did Ryan, which meant that at some point things were going to become interesting. (And here, Ryan’s mind supplied more than a few images of just exactly how interesting that could prove to be.) But, at least for now, he was content to follow his co-conspirator’s lead and let Lester organise their social calendar.

First, there had been casino night at the Clerborne Club.

Strictly members only, the interior of the Clerborne exuded an aura of old-fashioned opulence in keeping with its Georgian exterior and Mayfair location. A huge chandelier dominated the VIP room and the velvet-covered tables were flanked by men and women wearing identical royal blue shirts over black trousers. It was quiet, bar the shuffle of cards, the low-voiced calls of dealers and the occasional clink of glasses and ice. Security was unobtrusive but Ryan’s experienced eye picked out half a dozen plain clothes operatives in addition to the two smartly-coated doormen. He also picked out several cabinet ministers, a famous opera singer and a minor royal but these were of little interest except in proving the relative ease of approaching supposedly unapproachable people.

Babanin was a compulsive gambler and both Lester and Ryan thought a casino could offer a potential point of vulnerability. Their quarry was unlikely to be unprotected but any personal guards would have to stand back from the tables to comply with the rules against cheating. The downside of the location was that it would necessitate either some sort of poison or the use of a close range weapon that would both make identification easy and subsequent escape difficult. Still, the betting tables at all casinos were essentially laid along the same lines and it would be useful to plan possible scenarios and to establish previous gaming activity should anyone bother to check.

Poker nights had been a regular thing amongst some of Ryan’s previous postings and the current ARC forces had been known to meet up for a game or two but Ryan was not an enthusiastic gambler. He worked too hard for his money to throw it away easily.

Ryan played cautiously and won small. He was a competent player through practise rather than natural skill. Lester drew and discarded cards with an apparent lack of care and won and then lost substantial amounts before finishing the night slightly in profit. The smiles and frowns were correct but Ryan could tell that Lester was putting on an act. He’d known real gamblers and the difference was in the eyes. He also suspected that Lester was a much better player than this evening’s performance would indicate but here was not the right place to question his companion. They left just before one in the morning. There were still half a dozen tables at play.

 

This was followed by a dinner at the fashionable Spice Market restaurant.

Recently opened under the auspices of Michelin-starred chef, Gary Berry, tables at the restaurant usually had to be booked three months in advance. Lester suggested eating there the day before and had had no trouble securing reservations. Apparently he’d gone to school with one of the owners. Ryan accepted, pleasure warring with a quite irrational sense of irritation of what seemed wholly unconscious acceptance of privilege. He wondered once again if he actually ‘liked’ Lester and why the answer seemed to matter less and less.

 

“Something funny?”

Lester paused with wine glass in mid-air. He was wearing a red shirt tonight, open necked. It was possibly the first time Ryan had ever seen…James…without a tie. It made him look different, not so much younger as more approachable and quite disconcertingly attractive.

Ryan was wearing blue. It brought out the colour of his eyes and the highlights in his fair hair. He had dressed carefully and told himself that it was simply to add veracity to the evening.

“Private joke,” said Ryan. He picked up his own glass and took a sip. “Not worth explaining. Tell me more about how Labradors make better pets than Great Danes because I have to say your arguments have yet to convince me.”

Lester gestured at their half-eaten dinners. “Yes, but you’ve already admitted a partiality for salted butter and asked for your steak to be served well-done, which makes your opinion on any other subject decidedly suspect. Labradors are clearly the superior breed.”

“No salted butter when you visit,” conceded Ryan. “But Great Danes are still the dog of choice.”

 

They played squash at London Racquets. 

Ryan won – just. Lester sulked for the rest of the evening. Ryan also won their rematch. Lester did not suggest a third meeting.

 

There was music at Ronnie Scott’s.

Lester was a jazz fan. They listened to a swing band from Peru. Ryan wasn’t much for the music, if he was honest, but he could tell James was enjoying it.

And since when did he automatically think of Lester as James? Shouldn’t there need to be some sort of conscious thought involved in the transition? Ryan thought back and wasn’t sure, only that somewhere or other he seemed to have crossed a line that would have been better not crossed, and he was no longer sure of his ability to go back to the point where they began.

They sat at a small table, hands and thighs touching, as the evening drifted comfortably into the small hours.

The parting kiss was something of a surprise. That said, Tom Ryan was not one to back down from a challenge. He shifted his weight subtly allowing his height and build to give him an advantage and slowly took control of the encounter. Lester, who he might have known was not the kind of man to automatically shut his eyes on being kissed, actually raised his eyebrow at the manoeuvre and gave a small snort of laughter. Ryan snuffled a laugh too, without breaking contact, and grasped Lester’s elbows bringing them closer together. He moved his tongue against Lester’s lips and prevented further sound. Finally Lester’s eyes drifted shut and his body leaned into Ryan’s. At that point Ryan reluctantly stepped away.

“Surprisingly natural, you’re a turning out to be a much better actor than I gave you credit for,” Lester concluded standing fully upright again after a barely perceptible pause and minute foot shuffle. The insouciance was spoiled a little by the flush along his cheeks and Ryan was gratified to note that he was not the only one who was going to be doing a little readjusting in the trouser region.

Still he was not going to let Lester have the last word. “Likewise, James. To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

They hailed separate cabs as they were going in different directions. Ryan waved Lester off and stepped into his own taxi. And then he spent the entire ride home wondering if indeed Lester had ever had it in him.

*

“What was it that Helen’s supposed to have done?” Ryan asked Lester in yet another closed-door office meeting.

A look of frustration flitted across Lester’s features, an expression that was as close as he ever came to admitting he was out of his depth. He shrugged. “I told you, I don’t know the specifics only that she played her games with the wrong person.”

“And there’s so many possibilities?” asked Ryan.

Lester pursed his lips thoughtfully and gave one of his rare unguarded comments. “The ministry’s a big place, Tom, and like the military, it has its share of powerful idiots. There’s too many people watching James Bond films and playing spies and meanwhile we have a real threat to deal with in the anomalies. So, yes, there are many possibilities. And who might be pulling the strings is probably the least of our worries given that as far as I can work out they’ll be happy with this one thing. I think, in the end, it may not even be about Helen at all but a warning shot to Anatoly Babanin. If they can kill her they can kill him.”

“They?” asked Ryan, staring at him. Lester made it sound like an intellectual game. That might be forgivable in some people but Lester dealt with the after-effects of people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time all the time. In him, it was inexcusable.

“We,” amended Lester and dropped his gaze.

A sour taste rose at the back of Ryan’s throat. He said nothing. He really did not trust himself to speak.

Lester was musing, talking half to himself and half to Ryan. “That’s the story of Helen’s life, always seen as secondary, always under-estimated, always overlooked in favour of the more powerful male.”

“She’s not being over-looked now,” said Ryan and for the life of him could not keep the bitterness from his tone. It was largely self-directed for he had no one to blame for being in this situation but himself but there was also a large measure of contempt for the faceless men and women in their government offices who saw others simply as chess pieces to be moved around the board for their own selfish gain.

“No.”

It was a ‘no’ of agreement rather than denial. Ryan waited in case there was more coming, but Lester was silent, then segued neatly into a rant about ministerial incompetence and budget cuts. Half way through it Ryan got up and walked out.

“You really are a complete bastard,” he shot out as he was leaving.

It was a measure of how fucked the situation was that Lester did not bother to reprimand him or call him back.

 

They met again that evening.

Lester picked Ryan up from his flat in North London a little after 7.30. They were going to see a film at the Electric Cinema. Neither mentioned the conversation they’d had earlier in the day, either when they first met or after Lester had dropped him off again and they’d kissed goodnight. Apparently they were both bloody good actors and/or experts in compartmentalisation.

But only one of them was scheduled to commit a murder. So who did that really make a complete bastard, wondered Ryan.

He watched himself in the mirror as he washed his face in preparation for going to bed. He could smell a faint hint of Lester’s aftershave – Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet - and brought his hands to his face to trap the smell. He was equally trapped now. Helen was going to be killed come what may and he would do it as agreed. But when all this was over he would leave the ARC. Possibly he would even leave the military and start again somewhere else, doing something else. How ironic in all the fights and skirmishes of his career that it would be a good intention that brought him to this point of disillusionment.

Truly the road to hell was so paved. Maybe Helen would be waiting for him when he got there.

*

It was late June when the plans finally came together and Lester announced he would be away for a week on ministerial business. The much put-upon employees of the ARC could barely restrain their cheers at the prospect of a Lester-free interlude. Ryan naturally joined in the celebrations although, as it turned out, he was booked in for some training that week and would not benefit from the unexpected days of freedom.

Shame, he agreed, with a philosophic shrug, but just one of these things. He’d still be away and a change was as good as a rest. Right?

He found it hard to meet Nick Cutter’s eyes. He wanted this to be over and locked safely away in the file in his mind labelled ‘Do Not Disturb’.

*

Babanin was sailing into the Riviera and would, according to their sources, be docking at Nice harbour for three nights. The Russian would sleep on board his heavily-fortified yacht but would be approachable crossing the town, either on foot across the main square, or along the always slow-moving coast road. That he would be gambling at some point was a given. He was a favourite in the seafront casinos with their fin de siècle façades and gilt interiors. Ryan and Lester would fly into the town as a holidaying couple on a short break arriving two days before their quarry giving them time to prepare their plans.

“Wouldn’t Monte Carlo have been a better location?” asked Ryan.

They were at Lester’s flat eating smoked salmon tagliatelle with rocket and watercress salad. Ryan wasn’t interested in celebrity lifestyles but even he knew that Monaco scored much higher in both the betting and social hierarchy.

Lester gave a thin-lipped smile and twirled his pasta expertly around his fork. “Much better, but our man’s persona non grata in the principality. There was an incident two years ago. Some sort of fight in which two people died. Everything was hushed up but Babanin is no longer welcome in the Grand Casino. Nice is rather less nice in its requirements. If you can pay you can play.”

Ryan winced at the pun but didn’t comment.

*

Lester emailed him the details of the Hotel Negresco where they would be staying along with a note to bring appropriate dress. Ryan restrained himself with difficulty from sending a rude reply. Lester was, after all, still his boss. He did, however, reserve the right to make a sarcastic comment later to James. For all Ryan’s internal doubts and misgivings somehow Tom was still able to make jokes with James. He thought maybe that too much contact with the anomalies had somehow screwed his whole perception of reality and he was now living several different lives at the same time. It was a nice thought, anyway. Perhaps he would ask Connor some time. One day when he had a long time spare to listen to the answer.

The hotel Lester had chosen, The Negresco, was almost comically showy from the gilt-painted exterior, to the cherub-bedecked dome of the Royal Salon and the individually themed guest rooms. A note on the company’s website noted that jackets and ties were to be worn in the restaurant.

“Hiding in plain sight,” said Lester, when Ryan questioned the fact they were sharing a room in one of the world’s most fashionable hotels.

“And you’re sure that’s wise?”

Lester pursed his lips disapprovingly and adjusted already perfect cuffs before deliberately choosing to misconstrue Ryan’s question. “This isn’t the 1950s, Tom, couples, even gay couples, do share a room when they go on holiday together. Plus, there’s the budget to consider. The Negresco is an expensive hotel. I know you all think otherwise but the ARC is not made of money.”

Ryan raised his brows and didn’t question further. Go somewhere cheaper and less showy was the obvious solution to cutting costs. Clearly there was something Lester was still not telling if he wanted to be somewhere they could – and would – be observed by the world.

Well, either that, or the thought of five days without being formally dressed was just too much for Lester and he had sought out the one place in town where he could be assured of needing a tie! Once again he decided he would just have to go along with his companion and trust that Lester knew what he was doing.

Meanwhile Ryan put his own feelers out for information and the hardware that would be needed. Lester might think he thought of everything but Ryan liked to choose his own weapons. Belt and braces was always a good maxim and, considering the man’s wardrobe, one of which Lester should approve.

*

The flight for Nice took off from Heathrow. Lester naturally complained about the crowds and the poor level of service, even in the business class lounge, but it made a pleasant change for Ryan. Most of his flying was done on transport planes from military bases. He’d already made arrangements to collect his weapons in France and the stringent airline security did not bother him. Lester seemed similarly unconcerned so had presumably done likewise but Ryan was determined not to broach the subject first.

He did not need to. Once checked into the hotel and in the luxurious environs of their shared room, Lester got swiftly to business.

“Babanin’s yacht, Garnet, is due to sail in Tuesday, mid-afternoon, and has booked a mooring until Sunday although our sources expect him to leave earlier,” he announced briskly. “There’s no point even thinking about trying anything near the ship as it’s got enough guns and armoury on it to take over a small city.”

Ryan took a swig from his beer bottle, one of the many pleasant things about their room being its well-stocked mini-bar. It was Sunday today so that gave two days for reconnaissance.

“Are you listening” asked Lester in what could only be described as a pissy voice. Ryan grinned.

“Garnet, Tuesday,” he repeated obediently. In fact, as Lester well-knew, he was already fully aware of both the Garnet’s schedule and its impenetrability to attack. The latter hadn’t needed much research as the multi-million pound yacht had been the subject of a number of magazine articles at the time of its commission, most of which were freely available on the internet. He’d accessed the information via a proxy server as a matter of course but did not think anyone would be checking those particular downloads.

“And I’d be storming the boat with what? The power of thought? Some well-aimed buckets of crème patissiere?”

Lester glared across at him, unamused at Ryan’s levity. “Naturally not.” He moved to the wardrobe and typed a few numbers into the room safe. The metal door swung open and he pulled out a small case and laid it on the bed.

“Gives a whole meaning to room service,” commented Ryan, his voice becoming serious. He put his empty bottle on a side table, and rose from the easy chair he had been sprawled across.

Lester moved aside to let him open the box. He clicked the metal snaps apart and gave a low whistle.

The gun was a Makarov 9mm semi-automatic - clean, clearly well-cared for but old-fashioned. The Makarov had been the gun of choice for the Soviets until sometime in the 1990s and was still in wide distribution throughout the former Eastern Bloc.

“So we’re the blaming the Russians,” said Ryan. “Figures.”

Lester gave a small shrug. That about summed it up, thought Ryan, snapping the case shut.

“What were you planning on using?” Lester asked.

“Luger,” answered Ryan, not bothering to comment on Lester’s assumption that he would have access to his own firearms. “There wasn’t a great deal of choice in what I could get hold of at short notice.”

“So we blame the Germans instead?” asked Lester with heavy irony. “Get it anyway. I’d rather you used your own weapon. I’d prefer to be armed too, but I don’t suppose you ordered two guns. I really don’t want to touch this weapon unless we have to.”

“Just one,” confirmed Ryan and added, “And no possibility of getting a second.” He didn’t make the mistake of asking if Lester could handle a gun. Nor did he ask if Lester was expecting trouble. Clearly he was but at this stage of the game that wasn’t exactly news.

Lester answered the unasked question anyway, his hand brushing lightly against Ryan’s in what appeared to be an unconscious gesture of reassurance. “I’m a competent shot in case you’re wondering. Not, you understand, that I am expecting anything to go wrong but I find it’s best to be prepared.”

He sipped his mini-bar whiskey and grimaced. It was Jack Daniel’s, apparently the wrong brand, but Lester was slumming for the cause. Apparently there was nothing, or no one, he would not do for the job.

Including Tom Ryan.

It nagged him again even here when he should be concentrating on the finer details of the mission.

Ryan was under no illusions about his attractiveness. He was fit enough and his body was certainly in good shape but he was no Mr Universe. Lester had never before hinted, either implicitly or explicitly, that he would welcome any kind of romantic relationship with the leader of his Special Forces unit. Of course, there were a whole lot of rules designed to discourage fraternisation between colleagues but lust had a way of circumventing these things. Ryan supposed that if anyone could suppress all their natural urges it would be Lester but that made his current behaviour all the more inexplicable.

While their meetings in London had shown Ryan that he found Lester desirable, and since bodies don’t lie, he read the same kind of response in Lester - the attraction had almost seemed to surface despite Lester’s intentions. As if he didn’t really want to respond to Ryan and was fighting the instinct.

Clearly Ryan was being used but how and why? It didn’t add up. And he didn’t buy Lester’s implicit admission that he didn’t trust Ryan. If Lester hadn’t trusted him he would not be working at the ARC. It was a simple as that. Meanwhile Ryan was being asked to trust Lester and walk into a situation that was clearly not all it seemed.

In opposition to every rule of covert operations Lester was deliberately advertising their presence. Right down to the public displays of affection. There was something to ponder but now was not the time to pin Lester down. Perhaps there would never be a time. It would always be either too early or too late. But right now Ryan had to give all his attention to the job they’d undertaken to do.

He returned the Makarov, still in its case, to the safe. There was a box of ammunition that Lester had not bothered getting out earlier. It was only three-quarters full. Typical ministry, Ryan thought. Spend a fortune setting up an operation and then attempt to cut costs by supplying the bare minimum in bullets. Ryan gave a cursory glance to the contents to ensure that the box contained the correct bullets and not some variant that was nearly but not quite the right size, before putting them back. He silently thanked his prescience for not relying on the ministry to come up with the goods. Then, with the safe safely relocked, he swung round to the mini bar and secured another bottle of Budweiser.

Lester was speaking again. He was clearly in one of his lecturing moods. “Babanin will stay on his yacht where he’s well protected and then drive or walk to the casino. He’s as safe or as vulnerable, if you prefer, either way. The roads are chock-a-block as are the pavements. Helen will do what Helen wants but I can’t see her agreeing to be imprisoned no matter how luxurious the cage. In any case, she’s apparently in the habit of keeping a low profile in the daytime and accompanying Babanin on his evening gambling forays.”

“Probably looking to stop him eyeing the competition,” said Ryan snidely.

He’d done some research and Helen was definitely not Babanin’s usual type. For a start she was over twenty.

That made Lester smile. “She’s not what you’d expect to find hanging off his arm. But I expect she decided on him rather than him on her. What Helen wants Helen usually gets.”

“In that case Babanin wouldn’t stand a chance,” agreed Ryan. Then the other meaning of the words hit him and he realised that it was Helen who didn’t stand a chance and all thought of humour left him.

Lester looked like he was going to say something and then took in Ryan’s expression and visibly changed his mind. Good. Ryan didn’t know what Lester would have said only that, whatever it was, it would have been wrong.

And once again he asked himself just what he was doing here and just what was keeping him from walking away from the whole sorry mess.

*

Ryan had arranged to pick up his gun at one of the stalls that formed the marché aux fleurs at Cours Saleya selling fresh fruit and vegetables as well as the flowers from which the market derived its name. He stopped and admired the displays at a number of vendors before homing in on the particular florist he was interested in. The stallholder was dealing with a woman ordering wedding flowers so Ryan lingered admiring the cut bouquets with their mixture of roses, peonies and sweet peas, before moving on to the bunches of freshly-cut lavender. He pressed a sprig between his fingers to release the scent and was instantly transported to his grandmother’s Kent garden on a rainy afternoon. His grandma was long dead and her garden concreted over by the property’s new owners to make a carport but for a bittersweet instant he was ten again in a different time and a different place. Then the moment of innocence was lost and he was again in present day France with the sun warm on his back and rhythmic click of heels against cobbled stone as around him shoppers went about their business.

At last the stallholder, a middle-aged man with short, greying hair and a moustache, finished with his customer and turned to Ryan.

“Can I help you?” he asked in American-accented English.

Ryan grinned. “Is it that obvious?”

“You have the look,” answered the trader cryptically. Before Ryan could ask if this was a good or a bad thing, the other man was speaking again. “Are you searching for something in particular?”

“I’m looking for lemongrass,” said Ryan.

The stall holder hesitated a moment, and licked his lips in a quick, nervous gesture. He stared at Ryan closely before replying. “What type? Are you looking for whole stalks, powder or an essential oil? Or maybe for something from a particular region?”

Ryan made his voice deliberately casual. “Do you have anything from Germany?”

Ryan left with a bunch of lilies and a gun cleverly concealed in the wrapping at its base. The bullets were neatly stowed in a box purporting to contain flower soap. He’d paid well over the odds for the weapon but that was to be expected. More importantly he was as sure as anyone could be in these circumstances that his purchase would prove in good working order. So far, so good.

Lester, when he collected him inside a church where he was sneering at a particularly sentimental rendering of the Madonna and child in stained glass, looked askance at the bouquet.

“If those flowers are for me you should know I hate lilies,” he said, the words falling heavy in the cloistered atmosphere.

“They’re not. And point taken,” said Ryan, unable to resist adding, “Are you also going to be expecting chocolates?”

Lester was unfazed. “Naturally. Richart, if you can remember that name. I still shudder at the memory of the salted butter and the burnt steak so you might want to take a note of the brand now because any offerings of Dairy Milk will be firmly repulsed.”

Ryan couldn’t help his grin. “And they say romance is dead. I understand that you’re not cheap but does that mean with the right incentive you’ll put out?”

For a moment it looked like Lester might reply in kind but Ryan laid the lilies down between them and abruptly his expression changed and was replaced by a mask of business. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then let’s get going.”

This was a small chapel and they were the only visitors but a tray of votive candles burned brightly in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary suggesting that it wasn’t always as deserted as now.

There were worse methods of disposal. Ryan unwrapped the packaging and slipped the gun inside his shirt. That done, he rewound the paper around the long stems and laid the flowers at the feet of the statue, remembering as he did so that for many people lilies were a token of mourning.

 

*

Ryan had been to France a number of times over the years but not to Nice. Once he knew their location, however, he had made it his business to memorise a map of the town so that there would be no question of getting lost if he had to move in a hurry. Now, as when he first went to New York, there was a sense of both discovering and remembering the town at one and the same time.

Lester matched Ryan’s pace as they strolled through the streets of the old quarter. As in London the outing felt unexpectedly natural, like this was a real holiday with his partner. Or rather, how Ryan had always imagined a real holiday with a partner would be. His nomadic lifestyle and reluctance to get involved meant that he’d never really progressed beyond the odd quick and dirty weekend. Ryan tried not to think about how it would be if this was real.

He and James would spend the day sightseeing and then in the evening they’d eat dinner somewhere nice and then go back to their hotel and go to bed. And it would be dirty but not at all quick, rather slow and lingering, and afterwards they’d lie wrapped in one another’s arms. And then, no doubt, James would spoil the mood by saying something sarcastic but even that wouldn’t matter because Ryan would just laugh and kiss him into silence.

But this wasn’t real. And Ryan could not even indulge in the fantasy that it was. Not least because he knew whatever feelings he might develop for Lester they would always be tainted by blood.

But here, now, they were just walking. Ryan could forget the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans and allow himself to enjoy the day. His hand brushed against Lester’s and for a moment Lester held on to his fingers and brought them up to his lips mouthing at them gently before letting go.

 

Tuesday morning. The day dawned bright and clear and with the predictable promise of sun. Ryan and Lester ate breakfast early – croissants and black coffee for James and a full English with tea for Tom - and went for a walk around town intent on solidifying their impressions from the day before and checking likely routes and potential hiding places. Not that either anticipated any such run and hide situation. The truth was either Ryan would shoot cleanly and would get away unnoticed or they would be arrested at once. The brush-by syringe or poison-in-the-drink options had been discounted as impractical at a very early stage in their planning although, as Lester pointed out, impractical and baroque was actually something of a hallmark of political assassinations. The more unlikely the better.

Place Masséna, Nice’s massive central square, was decorated in the way central squares so often are with a classical fountain. Tourists perched on the rim of the structure, dabbling their feet in the cold water, watched over by a naked man with what Ryan considered particularly unfortunate headgear composed of a team of rearing horses.

Ryan eyed the statue as he and Lester passed before commenting caustically, “It’s always the guys with the least to show off about who are keenest to get their cocks out.”

“Plus he has a doughy arse,” he added as they walked across a set of tramlines and down the steps into the Old Town.

Lester grinned. “It’s convention, as I’m sure you know.” He slipped an arm around Ryan’s waist dipping his fingers downwards and pressing lightly. “I like his arse. Have you noticed there’s someone following us?”

“Two someones,” clarified Ryan, leaning in and planting a kiss on the tip of Lester’s ear. “I think there may be a third lagging some way behind. Do you have any idea who they are?”

“No,” said Lester, stopping at a souvenir shop to inspect a postcard stand. He pulled out a picture of the château waterfall at night, eyed it for a moment, and returned it to its place. “I think they belong to Her Majesty.”

“They don’t trust you or they don’t trust me?”

Lester picked up another postcard. This one featured a basket of kittens in 3D. He apparently found it fascinating. Something clicked inside Ryan and it did so on a wave of fury that was no less intense from having to be hidden.

He kept his voice low with an effort. “So that’s why you insisted on coming. I suppose I should thank you for protecting me? And congratulate you on your acting skills.”

Lester put the kittens down and picked up another card. Whether it was still subterfuge or simply an unwillingness to face Ryan, he wasn’t sure.

“Would it help if I said I’m sorry? I told you the truth before, I don’t know who it is that Helen has crossed, or what’s she’s alleged to have done, only that he’s influential enough both to order a murder and to effectively cover his tracks. One man can easily have an accident. It’s more difficult with two - especially two who have taken no trouble to hide their presence.”

“And the disappearance of James Lester would be harder to explain than that of Captain Tom Ryan.”

“That too. But I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”

“As far as I can tell,” said Ryan quietly, the anger fading as quickly as it had come, “you already have - both our lives.”

*

Later, Lester and Ryan walked along the seafront, and watched the parasailers harnessed under bright orange wings as they were pulled up and down the coast by motorboats. There were windsurfers too and some kite sailing. Ryan thought it would be fun to have a go and wondered if Lester liked water sports and realised he had no idea. He didn’t even know if Lester could swim. They were still being followed but at a greater distance now and in almost cursory fashion.

They’d been silent for a while when Lester spoke. “I tried out for Hamlet at school, you know, didn’t get cast. My drama master said I lacked a certain warmth and expression. He gave me a non-speaking part in the crowd. I didn’t bother trying the next year.”

“That must have hurt.”

Lester laughed suddenly. “It did. But the next year’s play was scheduled to be Hair and in the event no one auditioned, the play got cancelled and Mr Pepper left very, very suddenly and was never spoken of again.”

*

Ryan could get used to luxury. The shower pulsed sharply against his back, steam swirling out of the open cubicle in a visible cloud. His hand drifted down to his cock. The bathroom was large and seemed larger by a clever mixture of glass and mirrors. There was a separate toilet but the bath and shower were only partially partitioned from the main bedroom. He looked in the large facing mirror and saw James watching him. Deliberately he raised his fingers to his mouth and then returned his hand to his engorged cock. He paced his movements slowly not breaking eye contact until the final moment when orgasm hit and his eyes fluttered closed despite his intentions. When he came back to himself, heart racing, body still pulsing in the aftershock of bliss his eyes sought the mirror once more. James was gone.

A ribbon of semen remained on the black granite floor. He watched it until it was washed away then resolutely picked up the shower gel and began to wash.

When Ryan came back to the main part of the room, towel wrapped round his waist, running his fingers through newly-washed hair, Lester was reading _The Times_. He did not look up. Ryan wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.

*

The Luger felt heavy at Ryan’s hip. The gun was more limited and limiting than he’d like but it was functional. He and Lester were observing Bababin and Helen’s progress from a distance.

Anatoly Babanin, dressed like a 1980s rock star complete with leather trousers, open-necked white shirt and black sunglasses despite the lateness of the afternoon, exuded a ‘look at me’ swagger. His black suited bodyguards looked like the stereotypical heavies from a Hollywood film or the outside of a very rough nightclub. Somehow Ryan was not surprised. The sheer extravagance of the Garnet, complete with helipad on one of its five decks, did not suggest someone who favoured a low profile. That was great as far as Ryan was concerned. It wasn’t like he had men to spare to track the pair. The easier they were to spot the better. Helen looked…like Helen. She’d let her hair grow long again and it framed her face in wispy strands. She wore loose silk trousers and a low cut silk vest that showed off her generous breasts. The garment was attractive but practical. She linked her arm through the crook of Babanin’s elbow and said something that made the Russian laugh. She’d opted against sunglasses and although Ryan was too far away to see the expression in her eyes he imagined it would be watchful. Watchful and calculating.

Now that the heat of the day had gone the promenade was more crowded than it had been earlier as office workers came out for the evening and tourists gave up trying to catch the last rays of the sun. Ryan was not going to get a clear shot at his target. That much was obvious. In fact, he wasn’t even trying – that would come tomorrow. What he wanted to do was get some idea of who might be in Babanin’s retinue and how many people might be in his retinue. As far as Ryan could tell there were six men forming a loose guard. Two were the ‘show’ guards and the remaining four, dressed more casually in chinos and plain shirts, formed a loose cordon around their master.

Ryan and Lester still had a trio of watchers although now it was a different trio. It was all a bit James Bond. If you could imagine a scene in which ‘M’ was a total amateur who wasted a trio of men watching a pair of men watching a women. Still, that was what you got when Suits got involved. All, no doubt, for some idiot’s hurt pride at having their proposition turned down.

In his mind Ryan worked out a play-by-play shooting scenario all the while trying to factor in every eventuality.

First step was to get James somewhere safe. He wondered if he could make up some excuse to send him back to the hotel. He glanced at Lester to find Lester staring him. A sudden flush rose to his cheeks thinking of the scene in the bathroom earlier.

“Don’t even think of trying to get rid of me,” said the other man and turned away but not before Ryan could see the matching line of colour staining his cheeks.

*

“Show’s over for tonight. Might as well go home now.”

Ryan yawned. “True.”

The casino was as busy as it had been when they had visited the previous night and they were able to settle at an inconspicuous spot at the slot machines and observe without being observed.

Once ensconced in the casino Babanin settled at a poker table and played for around three hours. He took a break just before midnight and ate something from the buffet and then played again until two. At the end of the night he climbed into a waiting Mercedes and was driven away. Helen stayed by his side the entire evening not speaking much but smiling when her lover made a good play or commiserating when things went badly. Babanin evidently liked attention, clapping his own wins loudly and banging on the table when the cards fell disadvantageously. Aside from the bodyguards, which weren’t exactly unknown in this celebrity-dotted location, the party made no attempt at discretion. No point having it, if you couldn’t flaunt it, Ryan supposed.

Lester linked his arm through Ryan’s as they strolled the short distance along the Promenade des Anglais back to their hotel.

“You’re never alone when you’re an oligarch,” mused Ryan, pausing for a moment to admire the shadows cast by the street lights against the dark mass of the ocean. There were a few bonfires dotted along the beach and the occasional squeal of teenagers laughing and drinking and splashing in the cool waves.

“I’m sure there are compensations,” said Lester. “But, you’re right, it’s not much of a life in a gilded cage.”

*

Ryan dreamed that he was in the Permian with Nick Cutter back when the ARC was first set up. He followed Cutter to the deserted camp just like he had before but instead of a skeleton there was a freshly dug grave and inside it was Helen Cutter, her hands and face scratched and torn, eyes wide open and unseeing.

*

Ideally, it would be tonight. Ryan had paced the Square carefully watching with amusement as his own personal stalkers did likewise from a distance. He’d left Lester at a bar in the Cours Saleya with a double espresso, his laptop and a mass of emails that, apparently, could not wait for a reply. Ryan had deliberately chosen the most public place as the one where he could get closest to his quarry without attracting undue attention. A short range shot from within ten metres would allow him to be sure of killing quickly and then successfully merging into the crowd. Fate had been kind enough to arrange a summer jazz festival running across the week ensuring both large numbers of people and guaranteed confusion. He had no doubt that if Helen and Babanin followed the same path as yesterday he could carry out his task quickly and cleanly.

And after? That would have to take care of itself.

He’d much rather work alone at this point but Lester was adamant. He insisted, and it was difficult to argue, that post-shooting people would be on the lookout for a lone gunman not a respectable pair of Englishmen with tickets for Saturday’s performance of La bohème at the opera.

The opera for fuck’s sake! It wasn’t that Ryan hated opera. He quite liked it, as it happened. But he had surprised himself by suggesting seeing a performance as they passed the beautifully conserved opera house. It was late to book and only the most expensive seats were available.

Lester had narrowed his eyes. “I hope you’re not expecting to claim the tickets on expenses,” he commented. But he had raised no further objections. It wasn’t a date, of course. No more than any of their other outings. But it felt like it would be a date. It was the first outing that James had allowed him to both suggest and to organise.

Ryan found Lester at the bar where he had left him. The espresso had been replaced by a beer. There was, Ryan noted gratefully, a second glass of beer waiting. The food and flower stalls were starting to pack up now and leave room for the restaurants to set out their tables for lunch. Orange-suited municipal workers sprayed the cobbled streets with water hoses chasing fallen petals and bruised fruits first to the central gutter and then down the drains. A barefooted child played in the water kicking up puddles and drawing lines from one scattered water droplet to another.

“Everything OK?” asked Ryan as he settled into a wooden chair opposite Lester.

“If you mean, is the ARC still in one piece? Then, yes. If you mean has Cutter incurred yet another insurance nightmare and potential Tanystropheus-induced PR disaster, then no. Oh, and Temple managed to shoot himself in the foot.”

Ryan grinned. He liked Connor. “Isn’t that a regular occurrence?”

“I was talking literally not figuratively,” snapped Lester. He tapped the laptop keys in a staccato pattern clearly firing off an admonitory email.

Ryan’s grin got wider, clearly whatever Connor had done to himself it was nothing serious and it was business as usual back in London.

*

Although Ryan hoped for the central square, their plans had been made as near as possible with variants allowing for Babanin to take either of the main routes into central Nice or for he and his retinue to change direction entirely making towards the harbour and heading along the coast towards Villefranche-sur-Mer It made sense, too, to try and carry out the shooting as early as possible. If today failed, there was still tomorrow and theoretically the following two days although both he and Lester thought it likely that Garnet would sail earlier than scheduled. Ryan knew that should he fail to carry out the mission they would not be given a second opportunity. He wondered at himself that at no point did he consider deliberately failing at the task.

Ryan was aware of his own tension, body throbbing with anticipation. Lester eyed him but did not ask what was wrong for which Ryan was both grateful and irritated. He would have welcomed the chance to snap and get some sort of release. But then Lester looked equally tense.

“So this is it,” Ryan said at last. “This could be our last afternoon of freedom.”

Lester shrugged. “Possibly, though I don’t believe in surrendering to the melodramatic.”

The gesture was infuriating. Ryan wondered how much of Lester’s manner was assumed and if he deliberately set out to antagonise people or he just did not care. He let his anger show in his tone. “No doubt, but then you’re not about to kill an unarmed woman.”

Lester’s pale eyes flickered momentarily and the next words were sounded in a rather more conciliatory tone. “I doubt very much Helen is unarmed.”

“Unsuspecting,” amended Ryan, still angry.

Lester’s face was unreadable. “That I don’t know.”

No. Neither of them knew. Ryan just hoped she’d be unsuspecting and that his aim when it came to it would be good enough for an instant kill. Then he could go home and start with the self-recrimination and plan his letter of resignation. But first there was a murder to commit.

The ever-present hum of the air-conditioning unit sounded against the silence that now descended between them. Ryan was stolidly trying to clamp down on his emotions and build up the mental framework he’d need for later. Lester, well, god knew what Lester was thinking. Ryan probably didn’t want to know.

“Thank you,” said Lester at last. “I know you think I haven’t been straight with you but the truth is I couldn’t have trusted anyone else. I have faith in your integrity.”

Ryan grimaced at the choice of words. “Never mind integrity it’s my shooting you need to have faith in. Thank me tomorrow when it’s all over.”

“I do. I will.” There was another pause, charged now with things said, things unsaid and the possibility that this might indeed be a final afternoon.

Lester made the first move. “It’s early yet. We don’t need to get into place until after six. Any suggestions?”

“One,” said Ryan and waited. He thought he knew what Lester was offering but he wasn’t certain. This had to be mutual.

Lester conceded the point. “I’d like that too.”

Ryan allowed himself to grin. “The truth is, James, for some time I’ve been hoping you wouldn’t be straight with me.”

It was a measure of the stress they were under that it took Lester a full ten seconds to get the joke. Then he started to laugh. And Ryan laughed too. Because you had to really.

 

There was so much Ryan wanted to do but now wasn’t the time. At this moment, he just wanted to concentrate on the feel of skin on skin and not bother with befores or afters or what it might mean. Lester traced the outline of the tattoo on his arm first with a finger and then his lips interspersing kisses with lewd endearments as they lay on the bed. Later Tom would remember it as an interplay of hot and cold as their sweat-slicked limbs slid and thrust against each other seeking as much contact as possible as the ceiling fan whirled above their heads providing a constant counterpoint of cooling air. Lester had an unexpectedly filthy mouth and carried on a continuous monologue describing how he was going to fuck Tom long and hard as soon as they were done and back home as he kissed and licked whatever parts he could reach of Ryan’s body as their cocks rubbed against each other increasingly urgently. At some point Ryan forgot himself as he thrust upwards, chasing release and finally letting go in a series of short bursts aware that James was also climaxing, his come pulsing hot then cool against Ryan’s stomach and chest.

For a while they just lay and caught their breath. Then Ryan leaned across to grab some tissues and kissed James lightly on his damp forehead before starting to clean them up. “Just so you know, James, I am going to fuck you first and you are going to be begging me to do it.”

Lester laughed, albeit still a bit breathlessly. “Is that threat or a promise?”

“Bit of both,” said Ryan, pressing in by James’ side again. “You can tell me which after I’m done.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see when the time comes.”

They drifted and Ryan fell into a sort of light sleep. Lester bought him back to reality with a sharp hand squeezing his shoulder. “Wake up, Tom, we need to get moving.”

Ryan glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was getting on for six.

“You’re right,” he said. To his surprise, now that the time had come, he was almost relaxed. His mind was centred on completing the mission without any of the distractions and doubts that had plagued him since that first conversation months ago in Lester’s office. “I’ll take first shower if you don’t mind. There are things I need to prepare. I’ll be less than 10 minutes.”

“I could join you,” Lester offered, sounding surprisingly tentative considering what they’d just done.

Ryan flashed him a smile as he headed towards the glass doorway. “Thanks but no thanks. You’d be a distraction.”

True to his word Ryan was out of the shower in eight minutes according to the little clock. While Lester had his own wash Ryan pulled out the two guns from the safe and tested the mechanism of his Luger a final time. He was still reluctant to take both weapons but knew that wasn’t his decision to make.

Sure enough, Lester was adamantly against leaving the Makarov in the hotel room when they went out. He pointed out that they had no idea how things would go and if they went wrong it was better to be armed than not. Ryan didn’t bother to argue the case. At least Lester wasn’t the kind of the irresponsible idiot who would panic and fire at the first thing that moved. Ryan had dealt with a few of those in his time – young kids fresh out of training and wanting to be a hero, not realising that sometimes the best thing to do was to do nothing.

“Have it your way,” he told Lester. “Just remember, you asked me to do this, now let me do it. You follow my lead.”

Ironically Ryan now felt calm. He knew what he had to do and now was the time to do it. For the first time Lester looked nervous. It wasn’t a scared nervous but more of a clear apprehension of no longer being able to control and predict events. For all his confidence, Lester was a manager and not a field operative. This was really not his natural terrain.

Ryan ran his fingers along the back of Lester’s neck gently moving aside the damp hair and caressing the soft skin.

“Trust me,” he said, making it both a question and a promise.

“I do.”

Lester gestured for Ryan to go first out of the hotel room. Being Lester he was unable to resist a final comment. “You’re in charge now. And remember, if it all goes wrong I do not like lilies and if there’s some way to come back from the dead I will do so and I will say, ‘I told you so’.”

*

If Ryan had written a script for Babanin and Helen they could not have followed his directions more exactly. Thank god for complacency and habit, he thought. As on the previous two nights the couple and their companions set off along the coast road into Nice but then turned left along the Rue de la Terrasse which would take them through the centre of the town.

The Jazz Festival was in full swing with lines of visitors waiting to have their hands stamped and go through the wooden gates to the main stage and festival area. In such a small footprint Ryan wondered why anyone would bother paying as the sound travelled freely over the square and beyond. It was still daylight but evening traders were already setting up stalls offering bouncing balls and necklaces and hairbands with flashing lights. The sweet smell of chocolate-covered caramels drifted from a stand where a young girl was vigorously turning them over and over in their metal dish so they would not stick or burn. A burger van, crêpe sellers and a cocktail tent had already attracted untidy queues waiting to be served. Later the pillars around the square would be lit up in soft blues and reds. Ryan hoped he would not be around to see it.

Chance stage-managed the perfect tableau. Helen stopped to admire a poster for the festival, hand on her boyfriend’s arm to hold him still. She kissed him lightly on the lips. Babanin slipped his hand around her waist and drew her close presenting an open target to where Ryan and Lester stood.

“Get ready to move,” he ordered Lester. It was a clear shot easily within range, probably the only one that he would be offered and he wasn’t going to miss the chance.

After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Ryan fired, his gun discharged and re-concealed in his jacket almost as Helen went down. A second later Babanin clutched his stomach and fell. Two further shots rang out and Ryan saw more people fall in the crowd. A short distance from where Lester and Ryan stood someone started to scream. Then more people started to scream and a child began to cry and there was panic as people moved around not really knowing where they should go but not wanting to stand still in case they became a target for gunmen. Two distinct patches of ground lay clear. In one a lone man lay unmoving. In the other one man lay on the ground and a second sat upright by his side. Someone called for a medic and the call was taken up and repeated again and again for what seemed like a long time but was probably less than three minutes.

Already Ryan could hear sirens starting. The police came quickly, there was always a large presence in this area, and also an ambulance but it was obvious that it was too late for Babanin. Someone found a blanket from somewhere and covered the Russian’s body. There was no trace of Helen or of Babanin’s guards. Further along the square small crowd had gathered around the two shot men. Ryan didn’t need to look to know they were part of the trio who had dogged him and Lester throughout their stay. His French was of the schoolboy variety but he knew enough to recognise the gist that people were shouting that the men had guns and that they were not dead only injured. That was one thing. Ryan supposed they should be grateful.

On a scale of one to ten this probably counted as a fuck up of scale 8. At least no civilians seemed to have been caught in the cross-fire. What it meant for Ryan and Lester remained to be seen. True to his word, Lester seemed to be waiting on Ryan for instructions. The first thing to do was to get them out of there.

In this Ryan was helped by the Gendarmes who were systematically clearing the square, barring the entrance of the Festival tent to prevent anyone entering or leaving and herding those people who were on the square off to the roads around. Ryan let himself and Lester be led along with the others.

As a clean-up operation it was impressively fast and organised, right down to the sawdust over the blood, but then Ryan supposed that dealing that the presence of the annual film festival necessitated thorough emergency planning in case of major terrorist incidents. Looked at like that, this shooting was small fry for an experienced police force, interesting only in the level of international interest in the people involved. That alone would make this difficult to hush up entirely.

Ryan grabbed Lester’s hand and pulled him away, hustling first through the displaced crowds from the square and then through the largely unconcerned tourists into the smaller streets of the old town. Lester followed without protest. They moved quickly, not running, but adopting the brisk gait of men who had an appointment or a restaurant booking they did not wish to miss and were determined to get there on time.

Only when they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the main plaza did Ryan stop and loosen his grip on Lester’s arm.

“What exactly just happened?” He spoke quietly even though there was no one around to hear. “I shot Helen but then she disappeared.”

Lester nodded. It was impossible to miss the satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes. I think she got away.”

Somehow that did not surprise Ryan. “So she was expecting some kind of attack and wearing protection. But then, if they were a couple, why wasn’t Babanin similarly protected? Of the two of them he had much more reason to fear for his life with enemies all around the world. And why weren’t his guards looking out for him?”

“Who knows? It’s really an academic question at this point. Helen got away that’s all that matters,” said Lester.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Ryan and he didn’t bother to mask his fury as the full extent that Lester had used him began to become apparent.

Lester shot him a glance and complied. “Yes, I think Helen was expecting to be attacked and took preventative measures. As to rest of the scene I have no real idea. What I think happened is that Helen shot Babanin and then shot, or had someone shoot, the two men from Five, if they were even Five. It was lucky that they were only casualties.”

“You set me up.”

“Not at all, though I suspect we were set up. You’ll notice Her Majesty's finest also took a shot at Babanin although Helen got there first.”

“So we were sent out to perform one assassination but would have been blamed for two,” said Ryan.

“Something like that – the bullets would have matched those from your gun. And although the firing patterns might not have matched, the balance of probability would not have been in our favour.”

“My favour,” said Ryan softly. He realised both hands were clutched into fists so tightly because he was holding on to his anger.

“You never touched that gun, Tom,” said Lester. “If it had come down to it, it would have had my prints all over it. But it didn’t come down to it. Helen sussed what was happening and got away.”

“And if she hadn’t?”

“You know what. You’d have shot her as planned. There would have been no other choice.”

Ryan made a conscious effort and relaxed his hands.

“So they never trusted you?” He kept them walking, adrenaline coursing through his body, still demanding the release of action. It would die down, he knew from experience, but until then the only answer was physical movement.

“It’s complicated,” said Lester, and he sounded weary. “Yes, they trusted me, us. But they were also hoping to get something more out of the deal.”

“So uncomplicate it.” Ryan knew he sounded hostile and just now did not care.

“We would shoot Helen and they would use the opportunity to get rid of Babanin at the same time. I don’t know who ‘they’ is so don’t bother asking. I think it might have been a contract killing. The ministry isn’t known for its great pay or for attracting those with the best of morals.”

The hostility was still there. “You would know.”

So was the weariness. “Trust me, I do,” said Lester.

“So you set me up.”

“In good faith.”

He couldn’t see Lester's expression. “I hope that’s ironic. Because ‘good’ and ‘faith’ are two words that have absolutely no business coming out of your mouth right now.”

“It’s not ironic,” said Lester. “The job was set up exactly as I described it to you. If you want the truth, yes, I hoped Helen would find out and extricate herself. But if she couldn’t then I wanted you to be the one to kill her.”

Walking through the darkened street Ryan wondered if that would have been the preferable outcome. Helen had done what Lester had been unable to. She’d delivered her lover for execution right down to kissing him on the lips before handing him over.

“So a happy ending,” Ryan said at last.

“Depends from whose side you’re looking at,” replied Lester. “Best of a bad hand. I think the ministry may owe us something now. I shall have to look again at the budgets and see what else I can squeeze out from them. Shall we go home?”

“In a while,” said Ryan ,pulling him close and kissing him thoroughly, noting with a certain satisfaction that for once Lester was not trying to take control. Winning must have been enough.

*  
The hotel porter bid them ‘Good Evening’ as they strolled back into the hotel. A group of American tourists were just checking in. They skirted around the group’s suitcases to the grand staircase and made their way up to the third floor.

“And that’s that,” said Lester. The Makarov and the Luger were safely returned to the safe. Ryan thought he could probably sell the Luger back. If not he would drop it in the sea tomorrow. The Makarov was Lester’s problem. He had no doubt that Lester had it covered.

He was still angry with Lester and mixed with the anger was a kind of grudging admiration. Lester had a ruthlessness that Ryan lacked. He saw that even though Ryan was the one who had killed in the past and would probably kill again Lester was the more dangerous of the two. Once again he wondered when that had stopped mattering. And still there was Helen. Helen, who, he thought with a sudden shiver of premonition, was probably the most dangerous of them all. He wanted a drink.

The mini bar had been restocked. It now featured a bottle of Glenfiddich.

Ryan passed it to Lester without a word.

Lester shook his head. “You should never keep whisky in the fridge. Still, the gesture is appreciated.”

“Helen?” Ryan made it a question, although he was already sure of the answer.

“Presumably. It makes a nice change for her to say ‘thanks’.”

Ryan poured his own drink. He stuck with beer. “Why? Why this elaborate charade?”

Lester poured his drink and led them out onto the balcony. The evening air was still warm. “Do you think if I could have just sent Helen an email warning her I wouldn’t have done that? No one knew how to contact her. I had to rely on her finding us, which as you know, she did.”

“That was a risk,” said Ryan.

Lester laughed. “Not at all. I’ve made us as high profile as possible, any fool could have traced us. I hoped that once Helen had us in her sights she would dig deeper and uncover the whole plot. She’s a smart woman.”

“A dangerous woman.”

“That too. But she knows more than anyone in the world about the anomalies. We need Helen more than she needs us at the moment.”

“And that’s the real reason why you saved her?”

“Will it make a difference? It’s a real reason. But not the only real reason.”

“And that’s it?”

“Of course.”

“And me?” asked Ryan because he couldn’t help it. He had to know how much had been pretend.

“You know I’m not an actor”, said Lester. And Ryan realised that, at least for now, that was all he was going to get.

Lester finished his drink. “I think a mosquito just bit me. Are you coming inside?”

“In a minute.”

Lester gave him a final glance and left.

Ryan leaned over the balcony. The night, which covered some details, allowed others to flourish. The scent of roses in the gardens below drifted up. There was the faint smell of petrol and the indefinable smell of the ocean. He shut his eyes and tried to follow the sounds, stripping away voices and cars and the faint hum of music and concentrated on the steady hum of the sea as it swept back and forth against the shore. There it was, steady as a heartbeat linking past and present and future.

He wondered where Helen was and discovered he didn’t much care as long as she was no longer here. He wasn’t even angry with Lester. He’d played the best game he could with the hand he had been dealt.

Tomorrow they would go to the opera. And in the daytime he would make Lester climb the 400 steps to the château waterfall to see if the view from the top really was as splendid as promised. It was the wrong month for oysters but they might share a large platter of fruits de mer.

Suits. They were smug pricks or devious bastards. Occasionally they were both at once.

Ryan hated Suits.

But there was always an exception to the rule.

*


End file.
